The Second Best Rank
by Flatlander Jr
Summary: Sequel to "Grace Abounding." Castiel leaves Camp Chitaqua for a safe place to practice being an angel again. Meanwhile, a storm that would be at home in a hurricane comes to the camp, and it's only a prelude to even worse trouble.
1. Prologue

The Second-Best Rank

Danielle Frances Ducrest

Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ belongs to the CW. Any copyright infringements were not intended. This story was written for entertainment and not for profit.

Spoilers and Timing: This takes place in the alternate universe revealed in the _Supernatural _ep. "The End," a few months before the events of that episode (then it goes AU). Spoilers are for that episode and more general spoilers are for other episodes.

Summary: Sequel to "Grace Abounding." Castiel leaves Camp Chitaqua and goes to what he hopes is a safe place to practice being an angel again. It isn't easy; he'd become too accustomed to humanity, and what had once been the only perspective he'd known has become alien to him now. Meanwhile, a storm that would be at home in a hurricane comes to the camp, and it's only a prelude to even worse trouble.

...

The scream shot up through the clouds themselves, making them vibrate and scatter to form new patterns. The scream spread across the surface of the Earth, torn from a throat that cried in agony but also, amazingly, pleasure. Despite its power, the scream could not be heard by any Earth bound creature. The voice cried in a pitch so high no one heard it...except for him.

He looked up. He'd heard a sound like it before, but never on Earth. One of the torturers in the Fifth Circle knew just what to do to a male soul's testicles to create a sound like that. But he was on Earth, where he couldn't hear the cries of the damned; this new scream did not come from Hell. Demons waited in other rooms of this abandoned mansion, but they had no humans to play with, at the moment.

This strange pleasure-scream reached him from far away, somewhere to the southwest. Only one being could have made such a scream, a being he'd heard only because of the connection between angels.

"Ah," he said, speaking softly. "Welcome back, Castiel. I'd wondered how long it would be before you returned."

He wasn't certain if Castiel heard him. No matter. They'd meet soon enough.

He stood from the chair and walked across a white rug to the mirror. The marble fireplace beneath it was empty, soot from the last fire left there for about five years. The heat of flames did little to combat the chill that constantly drifted from his vessel's body, so he rarely bothered with hearth fires.

He looked in the mirror. Sam Winchester's reflection stared back. He could see nothing of Sam's intensity in that gaze, just his own perpetual calm. "Your friend Cas is back to full strength, Sam."

He watched his vessel's lips move in time with the words, but Sam didn't answer. They hadn't exchanged a word in years. He was certain it was only a matter of time before Sam woke again and renewed the efforts to retake control of the body they shared, just as he was not surprised that Castiel had found his Grace.

Things were about to become interesting.


	2. Chapter One

He couldn't see. He couldn't hear. His tongue wouldn't work enough to taste the wind that whipped around him. Dizziness swamped him, reducing his surroundings to a swirl of disorienting details he couldn't force to make sense.

"Dean!" The voice that screamed wasn't the right one. He was used to speaking with a human throat and to listening with human ears. He had neither now. A wave of panic made the dizziness worse; a mind too used to being human insisted that, if he had no vocal cords, no throat, no tongue, no mouth, he couldn't have spoken.

But this was supposed to be normal. He had no need of any of those, and the fact he'd come to believe he did proved just how much he'd sunk into humanity, as if five years as a human had trumped thousands of years as an angel. He just needed to remember. In his memories, he spoke without flesh and blood lips, saw without physical eyes.

He surrendered to senses he'd forgotten. The world around him slowly became comprehensible, but in a way so very different from what he'd come to know as a human.

The wind that had disoriented him was nothing but a faint breeze. He spread his wings, rose higher where the currents were stronger, and glided slowly across the sky, no longer letting the currents control him. The feel of the wind in his wings was nothing like the feel of wind across bare skin. It passed through him and around him, at the same time buffeting his wings and not touching them at all. The breeze caressed every segment of his being, merged and separated.

He looked down. The landscape spread beneath him, eventually vanishing in all directions with the curve of the Earth's surface. A tree was directly below his left eye, while a cabin was beneath his right eye.

He was huge. He'd forgotten all about how his angelic form was the size of a skyscraper. Though his form covered the space above the entire camp and the lake, he was invisible to human eyes. Moonlight passed through him unhindered. Castiel felt so strange. His human body had been warm, small, confined. His angelic form produced no temperature. The almost nonexistent evening breeze flowed through him; it should have given him goose bumps, but he had no skin. He felt the wind, but it was neither pleasant nor uncomfortable; it was simply there.

The night shift guards paced through the camp, not once looking up at the sky. On the fence, one of the watchers laughed at a joke her partner told her. Though _the camp seemed so small from up here, it was still home and still impressive for what it represented. He scanned the rooftops until he found his cabin, next to the garden. Light spilled out some of the other cabins, but most of them were dark._

_Movement caught his attention; Chuck and his two-man crew descended from the storehouse and headed to bed. Chuck's feet dragged in the dirt.__Castiel knew with a glance just how tired Chuck was. Chuck's thoughts shifted between the products he needed to do inventory on tomorrow and daydreams about the semi-hard bed waiting for him. His crew, Beverly and Casper, walked off to their cabin with their arms around each other._

_None of them knew what had happened to him. Castiel wondered how they would react when they learned the news. He wanted to fly down there; this overhead view didn't feel right. Even before he'd fallen, he'd preferred being on the ground to watching from above. But he couldn't get closer than half a kilometer above the cabin roofs. The sigils on the camp walls and on the ceilings of the cabins pressed him, as if he and the sigils were magnets with identical charges. Unlike magnets, the pressure grew steadily with the passing of seconds, even though he hadn't moved at all._

_Castiel let out a hiss of pain. Below him, every light in camp flickered._

At least now he knew for certain that the anti-angel wards worked; he hadn't screwed up those. It was just as well, really; without a vessel, he'd just spread throughout the entire camp. The thought of occupying the same space as all these people he called friends sounded, well, creepy. That was a completely human view, though; the realization made him laugh.

"Be sure to get your ass back here soon, you son of a bitch," whispered Dean. He stood near the truck and stared at the spot where Castiel's human body had been blasted apart. "You take care of yourself, you hear?"

Castiel sighed. "I could say the same to you." His voice sounded so strange he didn't add anything more. The trucks behind Dean shook a little, too, another reason not to say anything more. Dean glanced at the trucks but said nothing.

Castiel flexed his wings and bit back a moan. They ached from disuse. That hardly made senseit had been impossible for him to fly for the last five years because he'd _lost_ his wings, not because he'd simple stopped _using_ thembut they protested, anyway. If his Father was responsible for restoring his Grace, then perhaps this was a reminder that he shouldn't take this for granted.

He needed to be careful. He needed time to reacquaint himself with this form. He needed to watch out for Lucifer, and he needed to start work on rebuilding his corporeal form as soon as possible. He had sworn an oath to return to the camp, and he would uphold it. It was time to get to work.

He stretched his wings to their full spans and pulled away from the camp. His wings protested but didn't fail him. The wards that hid the camp from angels would make it impossible to find it again on his own, but he had no choice. He'd worry about that later.

Woods, roads, abandoned pit stops and towns passed beneath him. Within minutes, he'd reached his destination. He descended into the corn field gathered around the oak tree on a farm on Franklin's outskirts.

He didn't know why he'd come here. There was nothing special about the field, not without the Grace energy that had sustained it. The night was alive with the noises of animals. He could sense each insect in the dirt, each bird asleep in the trees. Back in town, a wild dog stuck his nose into a pile of fallen leaves; she was the only mammal wandering the streets. The town was as deserted as it had been that afternoon.

The corn was all around him and occupying the same space as him. Strange to thick that the stalks had slapped against his arms and made his skin itch. It didn't bother him now. He was aware of every leaf, cob and husk; each stalk didn't blend into the next, like they had as he'd moved through them as a human.

Castiel settled within the corn until the sun came up. He did nothing more than flex his wings and open his senses to his surroundings.

...

Dean rolled out of bed. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth with a sip of whiskey still in the bottle from last night and put on pants and a shirt.

He sat on the bed to tie on his boots. He glanced to the side. The words to wake up Sam almost passed his lips before he remembered, again, that this wasn't a hotel, that he'd had this cabin to himself for five freaking years, that Sam had never even seen the cabin.

Dean didn't know why he always forgot. It happened every damn morning. The cabin didn't even resemble a hoteland he knew, intimately, what hotel rooms looked likenot with the cabin's bare log walls, its unchanging, mismatched furniture and the unchanging, single bed.

He ignored the pang that shot through his stomach and headed out the door. He turned his thoughts to what needed to be done today. He'd have to meet with Chuck and Vince, to hear Chuck's report on the updated inventory. He had target practice with the teenagers, too; he was looking forward to that. A couple of those kids were pretty good, and the rest just needed a bit of encouragement. Teenage rebellion didn't exist at Camp Chitaquaat least, not when it came to target practice; everyone here understood what was at stake.

It was a normal day, really. Nothing was out of place...except for one significant detail.

But he wasn't thinking about that, either.

His cabin was the farthest from the sheds, practice range and camp entrance, which deliberately forced him to walk past all other cabins every morning. He would have done a circuit, anyway; years ago, when assigning the cabins to the original group of campers, he'd figured this arrangement saved him a few minutes every day.

The picnic tables were at the center of the cabin rows. At the farther end was the kitchen, then the garden, then the back of a cabin Dean wasn't going to look at today. He surveyed the tables. Worn but with plenty of years left in them, the tables formed four rows of four. Over half of them were empty; the rest of the camp was either on duty on the walls or probably still asleep. One table was loaded with the little kids, all talking loudly. A few parents or adults appointed as guardians watched them from nearby tables. Giddy was present, too, but at another table; after breakfast, Dean knew she'd join the kids and start on their morning school session.

Six of the nine teenagers were missing. Dean raised an eyebrow at Valerie, a dark-skinned girl that he thought was nineteen, and gestured at the empty spaces at her table. She made a, "Oh, please," face back, which, okay, was fair, considering she wasn't in charge of her friends. He really should appoint a leader of that group or something, if he thought they'd actually listen to the leader.

Yep, it was just another day. One of Camp Chitaqua's oldest members had turned into an angel overnight and the rest of the camp hadn't even broken stride. He was proud of these people, but he wished something _had _changed. Castiel had been a part of life here, hadn't he? Shouldn't his absence cause some sort of kink to appear in the chain? Then again, maybe no one knew yet.

Damnit, he wasn't going to think about this so early in the morning. Castiel was gone, but he'd be back. The camp would be fine until he came back. He gritted his teeth and nodded to Jahanyar and his wife, Gretta, who had just joined him at the food table.

The smell of fallen pine needles didn't cover the scents of biscuits made of dry yeast and flour and no eggs. There was a package of beef jerky on the food table, too, which made him smile. He'd made sure yesterday's stop at the Franklin Walgreens had included all the beef jerky the store still had, and the chefs had taken notice. He grabbed a few pieces and a biscuit. He liked to have something unhealthy as many times a week as possible. That goal was harder to accomplish nowadays; he could remember that hamburgers were juicy and delicious, but he couldn't have said what they'd tasted like.

He took a bite of the biscuit as he waiting in line for something to drink. He nodded at the woman across the table. "Nice going with the biscuits, Grace."

She nodded back. "Thank you."

Dean startled. He'd forgotten how deep her voice was. It was almost masculine. She raised an eyebrow at his odd reaction and he plastered on a quick smile.

She opened her mouth, seemed to hesitate and said, "I was wondering...Castiel, did he...?"

Dean stilled. He glanced around. Her voice hadn't carried, but the closest people to them were paying attentionJahanyar and Gretta, behind him in line, and also Vince and his girlfriend Barbara, who sat at the closest table.

Dean sighed. "Castiel found his Grace. He's an angel again."

Grace smiled. "I knew he'd do it."

"Really. And how'd you know that?"

"I spoke to him last night about it."

"Huh." From the way Castiel had acted around her, Dean was surprised he'd talk to her about anything.

"Jahanyar told me what happened yesterday in Franklin," said Gretta. She and Jahanyar looked shocked. "I didn't know if I should believe him, though. It sounded so crazy."

"Well, believe it," Dean said, more gruffly than he'd intended. "Our resident rune expert is back to being 100% angel."

He grabbed a drink and headed for an empty table, hoping to escape any further conversation. He ignored the whispers that started near the food and spread to the rest of the tables.


	3. Chapter Two

There seemed to be much to do, much to adjust to again. Days and nights passed quickly. Castiel was certain he'd been restored to full strength, the state of power he'd possessed before his rebellion against heaven. How, he didn't know. He didn't know how long it would last. He was still cut off from heaven, and without it, he didn't know how he would maintain his Grace.

He stretched his hearing to every plane he could reach and heard only silence. He didn't call out; he didn't dare, not when Lucifer could be listening. If his brothers and sisters were alive, they hadn't revealed themselves. Castiel pushed down bitterness and disappointment. He'd have to assume he was on his own. That hadn't changed.

Franklin was quiet. He could hear more with angelic senses, everything from the rustling of every leaf in the cornstalks to the breath released from animal lungs in the town, the only living things left in the vicinity, to the creak of a door on its hinges in a torn-apart house on the other end of town.

His hearing couldn't reach to the camp. A pang of loneliness shot through him, and the cornstalks fluttered in sympathy. He missed life at the camp and all its little noises. He missed the numbness and bubbly feelings wine and beer gave him and he missed the effects of all those drugs. He was too aware of his surroundings, now; he'd taken from granted how easily humans could sink into unawareness.

The day passed steadily. He practiced. He spoke aloud to reacquaint himself with his voice. A farmhouse was nearby. His voice blew out its windows. Sparks flew from lamps and a television. The commotion startled the raccoons and moles living in the walls, and Castiel stopped before he destroyed their eardrums. He flew around the town, invisible, passing through roofs and walls. He entered the underground sewer system on a whim.

He soared into the air and joined the clouds. Far to the northwest, storm clouds gathered. He thought about soaring straight into it and letting the rain pour through his form, but he decided to stay where he was, for now; he wanted to stay in a safe place while he practiced.

He flew high enough to see the sun above Franklin's white clouds, and it was even more beautiful than he remembered. _He laughed and returned to the ground, and the corn stalks shifted in the music made by his voice._

_When the sun was at its zenith, he thought of boiled carrots and beef jerky, the only meat available at camp except for the occasional rabbit or, in one memorable week, a deer, shared out in the smallest portions possible in order to make it last for days. He thought of scraping his arm against a wooden bench and getting a splinter, his first, and being laughed at by Risa as she stuck a needle under the skin to remove the sliver of wood._

_When the sun sank in the sky, Castiel remembered evenings spent in conversations with Dean, Chuck, Vince and others, sometimes involving alcohol and pills, sometimes not._

_When night fell, he thought of female hands and legs twining with his, his cock hard and eager. The memories couldn't arouse him now, which was shame, but he could remember it pretty well._

_The loneliness he remembered from the days after his rebellion settled in his Grace. The desire to call to his brothers and sisters rose more than once, and he had to clamp down on the impulse._

Recreating his corporeal body would take much of his energy. Almost a month had passed before Castiel thought he was ready to begin. He began to gather together particles. He'd mapped Jimmy's body molecule for molecule once; it had been necessary, in order to mend it whenever Castiel was shot or stabbed. Castiel concentrated on that mental map as he forced the particles to change and form new bonds-

-a voice ripped into his concentration. He lost hold of the particles he'd gathered, and they scattered. Surprised, he didn't try to catch them.

The voice whispered to him, calling a one-word summons: _Castiel_.

It was Lucifer's voice. The Archangel had never spoken to Castiel this way, never when they were both part of the heavenly host and not once since Lucifer rose again. Still, Castiel recognized the thought-voice; besides, who else would call him? It filled his inner-ear, the place that should have burst with the discussions of a hundred thousand angels but was empty instead.

His brother had found him.

Lucifer called his name again, but Castiel was already moving too fast to catch more than a syllable. Flying had always hindered mental communications, and it messed with an angel's senses, too, making it hard to track where another angel was until that angel became still again. Castiel soared from the empty buildings in Franklin and up, into the clouds. He let the clouds seep into his Grace until he was on the other side.

Lucifer was nearby, but the feeling was not precise; Lucifer was moving, too, behind him and gaining, but Castiel couldn't tell exactly how far. He beat invisible wings frantically. He ignored the aches that pounded into his Grace with the motions. He was out of shape and out of practice; Lucifer would catch up all too easily.

_I would...speak...you, Cas_-The other angel's thought-voice filtered in pieces through Castiel's furious movements. His wings beat harder, overriding the thought-voice completely.

Lucifer was closer, though Cas couldn't tell exactly how far.

Light flared behind him, flashing against the clouds spread beneath him. Castiel had no shadow, and neither did Lucifer, but the flare of the Archangel's Grace meant that Lucifer was far too close.

Castiel swooped in a dive. Theclouds soaked up his Grace until he dropped out the other side. The countryside opened far beneath him: the corn field with the oak tree, the treetops, the fallow fields of the surrounding farms, caved-in roofs and an abandoned interstate, asphalt cracking from disrepair.

A snake-like body of black smoke rose from a field of dead corn. It twisted up to meet Castiel.

Castiel's Grace flared brightly, much like Lucifer's had done a moment ago; The demon smoke couldn't slow down to stop its charge, and the Grace light fell on its twisting, wreathing coils. The demon wailed with the voice of a tornado. It tried to twist away in spastic attempts. Castiel beat his wings, drew himself closer, and let his Grace energy pass through the demon smoke and rip it apart.

The smoke dissipated like vapor. The demon was dead.

Another column rose from the corn fields, and another, and another. More tore paths through the air and shot toward Castiel. They were surrounding him, too quickly for him to break free. Castiel let them come. Each snake of smoke that touched the outermost edges of his Grace wailed, flailed and became nothing.

More came to replace them. Castiel lost count of how many demons perished, thousands of feet above an abandoned town. All too soon, his energy began to drain. He needed rest, but he had no chance of a reprieve. He longed for his sword and for the support of his garrison. He longed for the human men and women he'd trusted to be his back-up for five years. Up here, he was alone, and it was not enough.

The light of his Grace dimmed. There were too many now, around, above and below him. Castiel floated in a cloud of demons, an immaterial being against a horde of evil-drenched souls. They made no sound, but he could have sworn they were laughing. How stupid he'd been to do this, to come back here to the site of the tree. Only weeks had passed since his Grace had been restored, and what good had it done? He'd die and Camp Chitaqua would gain nothing from it. He'd failed, again.

_Castiel, you've lost this battle._ said the thought-voice in his mind. Lucifer was nowhere to be seen; perhaps he was waiting just beyond the swarm of his minions.

_And yet I'm still alive_, Castiel answered. _Why don't you show your face, Lucifer? Are you scared of a lower-level Seraphim?_

Lucifer laughed softly. _Oh, Castiel. Do you actually believe the old ranking system still applies? I am the most powerful angel on Earth, which I believe puts you in second place._

Castiel didn't feel like the second most powerful angel. Some of the demons moved closer. He beat the air with his wings, and the demons backed away. Daylight appeared in the space, but the demons closed the gap too quickly for Castiel to escape._ It's true, then? _he asked. _The other Angels left?_

_Oh, yes. They fled like the weak little cowering creatures they've always been._ He sounded amused. _But not you and I. We are the bravest, and we have persevered._

A wave of repulsion washed through him, manifesting as a ripple of light the demon fog could see. Castiel did not want to be grouped with Lucifer in any circumstance...no matter how much satisfaction he felt at the insults his brother prescribed to the Host.

_I wish you no harm, this time_, said Lucifer._ I'd actually like to give you a gift._

_A gift._

_I think you'll like it. Let's go_.


	4. Chapter Three

No more leads on the Colt surfaced. The only way to gather them involved leaving camp, which Dean was reluctant to do without any idea where to start looking. They didn't need a supply run, so they had no practical reason to leave the safety of the rune-covered walls, either. So, Camp Chitaqua settled into Life In-Between Missions. Everyone had roles to fill, from baby-sitting duty to repairs to inventory to target practice and gun upkeep to car repair and gardening and so forth. For Dean's part, there was camp maintenance to oversee.

"What's with the mass order for nails?" he asked Barbara on Day Three of Week Two.

Barbara was the camp's hair stylist, tattoo artist and odds-and-ends repairwoman. It was maybe an odd combination, but they had all kinds at the camp. Colorful abstract tattoos marked her arms, faded reminders of better days. Their limited stores of ink were reserved for anti-possession sigils only; Dean had no doubt Barbara would be covered head to toe in designs otherwise.

"It's just for a few days," she said, "then they can get back to bullets. If you want me to replace those rotten boards in ten whole cabins, I need more nails than I've got. I don't want to wait until the next supply run, either, because I want to get the repairs done before the rainy season."

There were arguments to be had with Risa, who never seemed happy unless she was arguing with someone, usually him. On Day One of Week Three, Dean found himself missing the quips he traded with Castiel and deliberately went to the Infirmary, where he and Risa had a nice forty-five minute row. It started due to her need for fresh sheets when all she had to wash with was boiled lake water, but the argument degenerated into the so-called regrettable state of his manhood. Arguments with Risa usually ended around there. Damn, but he thought that woman was hot when she was angry.

Around noon on Day Six of Week Four, Dean left the practice range and headed across the dirt road to the cabins. Not far to the right was the gated entrance to the camp. The lake was just in sight down the road to the left. Dean spared both directions a glance, scanning for any trouble, but his mind was on lunch and picnic tables still out of sight. His stomach was growling.

A drop of water fell on Dean's forehead. He looked up at clouds that were turning gray. They were due for a storm, looked like.

He looked down and stepped out of the way as four kids raced by, running nonstop toward the lake.

A fifth kid followed after, wielding a stick over his head. Dean thought he was seven years old. "Die, fiends!" he cried. "For I am Castiel and I will smite your asses!"

He dashed by, not paying Dean any mind. Dean stared after him.

Valerie gave Dean an apologetic smile and jogged after them, calling out to Castiel' to watch the road, where muddy tire tracks had hardened into ridges that angels could trip on.

Vince walked up to Dean, smiling. "It's another round of Demons vs. Castiel." His shoulders were dotted with little wet drops. The drizzle continued to fall. "It's like a complicated mix of tag and mock battles. Don't ask me."

Dean shook his head. Over the past month, rumors about Cas had grown exponentially. Morale had risen around camp, as if having an angel in their ranks was going to help them somehow. The fact that Vince was smiling was proof; the sight was so rare, but Dean had caught his lieutenant in a good mood more than once that week.

None of the campers had been around in the old days. If Dean was a bastard, he would have told them not to get their hopes up. Saying such a thing would have branded him as a hypocrite; he couldn't help but feel a little hope himself, though he didn't expect Cas to work the miracles the other campers seemed to expect. Dean just thought they needed all the help they could get, and there were things a Cas-with-powers could do that a human Cas couldn't.

"There's a seminar scheduled today on all the runes," said Vince. "For the newbies. Cas was supposed to teach it."

"Right. He was." Everyone had a role at the camp, and though most people knew the runes thanks to Cas, no one knew them as well as the teacher. Dean sighed. "I'll do it." He could cover the runes that didn't need a spoken component. He always botched up the pronunciations.

A door in the first row of cabins slammed open. Jahanyar dashed down the steps of the "office," a room where the radionot that it picked up anythingand the spare walkie talkies were stored.

"Winchester!" he called. "Patrick's spotted something to the Southeast."

"What did he see?" Dean called back.

Suddenly, drizzle turned into downpour, drowning Jahanyar's reply. The cacophony slapped against the dusty road, flinging mud and raindrops everywhere. With a curse, Dean jogged with Vince and Jahanyar to the shelter of the office. They were soaked before they made it inside.

Dean wiped water from his eyes. "What did Patrick see again?"

"Demons," said Jahanyar, and Dean froze. "They say they saw demons."


	5. Chapter Four

The rain pounded against overgrown grass and sent mud splashing in his face. Dean wiped his mouth with his sleeve and squinted through the drops. The lake began a few feet away, but the water mixed with the rain so well that all he saw was solid gray. "Valerie!"

Thunder split the darkened clouds, briefly illuminating campgrounds that should have been lit by afternoon sunlight.

"Here!" She appeared to his right.She waved behind her, and the kids rushed by, drenched and yelling. Valerie followed after them and caught a four year old when he stumbled.

Dean's shoulders dropped in relief. Valerie would make sure they all got inside. He'd have to trust that the rest of the kids were already indoors and not stranded outside somewhere in this weather.

Camp Chitaqua had seen its share of storms in the years it had withstood the Apocalypse, which had caused the occasional out-of-season weather, like this. Still, today's storm had come suddenly and too quickly for this area of the country, and it was too powerful. Dean ran through it towards the camp's southeast wall. Winds that would have been right at home in a tropical storm battered him and pounded rain against his back, head and legs. He stumbled over ground he should have been able to travel in his sleep.

The camp's wooden wall appeared through the curtain of water. Dean felt heavy and exhausted, but he turned left and followed the wall until a tower formed. He found the ladder and hauled himself, drenched clothes and all, up slippery rungs. Hands grabbed him part of the way up and helped him the rest of the way. Dean passed under the tower's roof, and the two watchmen hurriedly closed the door.

Water sprayed through the open windows, but the air behind his back was dry. Patrick handed him a water bottle and Dean nodded thanks. "Walkie talkies won't work in this weather," he said, though they already knew. "What was it you spotted, exactly?"

Patrick and Nate exchanged a glance. Patrick pointed south. The rain fell sideways through the open window, splattering his upper body with water while his bottom half, protected by the tower walls, stayed dry. "There's something about some of the clouds that way. Take a look."

The tower was crowded with the three of them, but they shuffled around so Dean could get closer. The roof definitely helped his visibility. He held a hand up to shield his eyes from the spray. Goosebumps traveled up his arms as wind shivered over his wet skin.

The clouds directly overhead were so dark they were practically black. The clouds to the south were slightly lighter, and the clouds farther away were ash gray. The clouds beyond those were black, not so dark gray they were close enough to it but pure pitch.

Patrick wiped the lenses on his dry pants and handed Dean a pair of binoculars. The black clouds resolved into slightly bigger blobs, but the magnification did help Dean see that they were moving, twisting, twining in and out like a ball of snakesnot typical cloud behavior at all.

"Shit!" Dean stared at Patrick and Nate. Nate nodded, grim-faced. "How many?"

"Between ten and twenty." Patrick flicked water off his cheeks with a hand covered in smudged ink. The anti-possession rune was smudged, though the inked lines were still visible; the mark was serviceable, maybe. "Hard to narrow it down, though, in this fucked up weather. It could be more, it could be less."

"Have they come closer?"

Nate shook his head. "We spotted em seven minutes ago. They're just hovering out there."

The runes protecting the camp were holding, then. Castiel had cooked up some great ones, years ago, and he'd kept the marks in place on the camp's walls ever since. The runes confused the demons to the south and rendered Camp Chitaqua invisible to demonic senses...but only from a distance. If the demons got close enough, they'd see the camp. And then a pile of shit would head their way.

Dean hoped Castiel was staying out of trouble, wherever he was, and that he would show up soon; a bit of angelic assistance would be awesome, anytime but especially now.

The wooden tower groaned. The wind sent a hurl of water into his face, making him splutter. Trees on the outside of the wall danced wildly. If branches scratched against the fence with enough force, and if the wind managed to take out some of the planks, then the runes would be broken. The demons would see them and overrun the camp. It was too wet to lay down salt. The iron buried in the ground along the fence would help, but there hadn't been enough to cover the whole camp, just enough to fashion a few devil's traps. The cabins had their own sigils sprayed on ceilings; with any luck, those would hold, so anyone inside them would be safe.

"All right." He handed back the binoculars. "Nate, it's time to stretch those legs of yours. You up for it?"

Nate smirked. He'd been on his Cross Country team in high school seven years ago. "I think I've got it in me."

"Good. Get over to the south tower, alert them to the demons if they don't already know and see if they've seen more odd-looking clouds. If they've got any news, I want you to get to the armory immediately. If they don't, I want you back here. I'll be sending runners out soon to alert the other watchmen and to get you guys new orders as soon as I've got them, all right? Thomas, you hold until he gets back. Try the walkie talkie every once in a while; maybe we'll get a connection. And re-do your ink." That would keep Thomas out of the rain, too, and therefore keep him free of demon possession. Dean had paired Nate and Thomas together on purpose. The younger of the two could run for help, while the other had spent a lifetime on deer hunting trips and was accustomed to waiting, watching and shooting from inside a blind.

They nodded. Nate went down the ladder first and Dean followed behind. Not far away, the nails holding a board in place on the wall pulled free. The nails at the bottom stayed in place, for now, but the green sigil partly spray-painted on the wall was broken.

If this kept up, his next orders would be to abandon the wall. Still, he didn't stop Nate from rushing off along the wall He soon disappeared into the rain.

Dean headed north, back into camp. He was blind after a few seconds, but he watched the ground and kept going, trusting the gut feeling that he was headed in the general direction of the armory.

Thunder rumbled, lightning crashed, and the wind howled with enough force to knock him aside. Dean got back to his feet and took off again. He wondered if this was it. He'd survived five years of the Apocalypse only to go down because a few wooden walls couldn't withstand a bit of weather.

...

The demonic cloud shifted and forced Castiel to fly southeast. At some point during the journey, Lucifer's presence faded away. The demons continued to herd him for perhaps another two hundred miles.

They descended. Castiel's guard spread out to surround him and a mansion on the ground beneath them. Spaces opened between each demon, but Castiel made no move to escape, not yet.

His feet passed through hedgerows and apple trees on immaculately kept grounds. He set down his feet. His angelic form was far too tall. The house seemed the size of a dollhouse, even though he knew that, when seen with human eyes, it would have been big and pretentious. The windows were intact, the plaster unbroken and clean, the roof tiles sturdy and not ruined. Every town and city on the Earth had fallen into disrepair, but not this house.

The storm far to the northwest hadn't touched the Earth here. The sun shined unimpeded on the gardens, a landscape of green brighter than anything he'd seen in a while, when his reality had been confined to campgrounds under permanently cloudy skies.

Lucifer was inside that house, confined to Sam Winchester's body. Castiel could sense the power of the fallen Archangel. _Is this what the Prince of Lies enjoys?_

_What better place than the home of one of humanity's greatest achievers? This is what your precious humans strove for, Castiel. You walked among them; I thought you'd appreciate this sort of setting._

_Just get to what you want._

Lucifer heaved a mental sign. _Haven't you sensed it yet? My gift to you is in this house. Make yourself small, brother. It is in the sitting room._

Castiel made his form shrink as he stepped forward. The roof disappeared from view, then the third story windows rose above his line of sight. He walked through bushes and blades of grass as his true form became even smaller. As the second story ascended above his head, Castiel passed easily through the walls of the ground floor. He stopped inside a room filled with armchairs and other furniture. A ceiling fan over his head shook and lights flickered and sparked, announcing his presence.

An unclothed body lay on the couch. Castiel passed through the coffee table for a closer look, but he didn't it. He'd recognized it from across the room.

"My vessel." The glass door of a grandfather clock exploded, showering sparks on a wooden floor and furniture. Castiel pressed his lips together, annoyed with himself, and turned back to the couch. The body that had once belonged to Jimmy Novak, that he'd made his own, lay still as if dead. It might as well have been, empty as it was. No soul occupied it. The eyes were closed. The chest didn't move to suck in a breath.

That body had been his only a month ago. He wanted badly to step into it again, but he refrained with all his will. _You restored it. Why?_

_I thought you would do it eventually,_ Lucifer said, _but I wished to spare you the effort. Matter reconstitution is much easier for me._

Beside the couch, a home entertainment system came to life. The screen switched on, off, on again as static burst from the speakers. The more Castiel remained in here without a vessel, the more damage he'd cause. That was fine with him. He wondered if he'd get the chance to see the devil's minions clean up the mess.

_Please. Take it_, Lucifer projected from the other end of the house. _If you reclaim your vessel, you'll be free to go._

_Show yourself. If you want to speak to me, brother, do it face-to-face._

Lucifer's mental chuckle scraped across Castiel's Grace like sandpaper on human skin. _Oh, no, little brother. We will properly see each other again, just not yet._

Castiel's hands clenched into fists.

_Slip on your meat suit, Castiel_. His amusement had vanished; the words were a command now. _There is a group of humans out there that you care about. If you want them to live, you will reclaim your vessel right now._

Castiel stilled as his irritation slipped into alarm. _What do you mean?_

Lucifer was silent.


	6. Chapter Five

Dark, square shapes appeared through the falling water. Dean adjusted his course for the armory, the second to last cabin on the row, beside the storeroom. The lights in both buildings, distant but bright, acted like a beacons.

A burst of wind bowled into him and sent him staggering, again. A pine tree above him let out a moan. He scrambled out of the way and got splashed as a branch that was as big as him dropped into a puddle.

This was tropical storm weather or worse. Everyone was in danger, no matter if they were outside or inside. Dean had been caught in a tornado once or twice in his life, and the last time a hurricane had been headed to the coast at the same time he was in its path, he'd watched through a motel window as the wind had flipped over a truck in the parking lot.

He needed to get everyone to safety, but there was nowhere to go. This area of the country shouldn't have tropical storms or tornadoes. With demons hovering on the horizon, Dean was willing to bet they had some influence on the storm. The demons had known just what to do, too, and he cursed his lack of foresight. The camp had no storm cellars and every structure was made of wood or flimsy tin.

"Cas." He couldn't hear himself speak. "Anytime you wanna drop in."

He burst up the steps of the armory and through the door. Yasmine and Vince immediately trained guns on him, so he held up his hands. "Stand down!"

They lowered their arms. They were just as drenched as he was, but he was the only one still dripping water on the floor. Risa, Chuck and Jahanyar were at the farther side of the room, standing around the table. Shelves and a couple of cabinets along the walls held various weapons.

Dean started talking before they could say a word. "We've got demons to the southeast. So far, they aren't doing anything, but we're going to be ready in case they do. Risa, Chuck, I want you to go to every cabin and do a headcount, make sure we're not missing anyone. Take some guns and medkits with you. Tell anyone who's able to come here and get armed. Be careful; tree branches and who knows what else are falling all over the place. Yasmine, you'll hand out guns and ammo when people get here. Chuck, Risa, get anyone who can't fight into one cabin as close to the center of camp as possible and let me know which one; maybe all the cabins around it will offer some wind protection. I'll send a few people to keep guard. Vince, I need you to go to all the towers and tell everyone to get their asses back here."

He wasn't happy with a single word coming out of his mouth. He wished they could all just stay in the relative safety of the cabins and ride out the storm. If this were just an ordinary storm, sending his people into it would lead to more broken bones and scrapes than he'd care to count. With demons on the horizon, though, his orders were necessary.

The door burst open and slapped against the wall. Nate, so drenched that Dean could see the logo on his undershirt, stopped inside, panting heavily. Yasmine, the closest to the door, caught a bottle of water Risa tossed to her and handed it to Nate. He gratefully chugged it down.

Dean's stomach sank. "What'd they see?" He thought of Jackie and Violet, stationed in the south tower; Nate wouldn't have come here if they'd given him no news.

"Demons," Nate said. "More of them, not just the same cloud we saw but another patch to the southwest."

"Shit!" said Yasmine. Dean silently echoed the sentiment.

"Why are they coming now?" Risa looked around the table at faces that seemed to be wondering the same thing.

Chuck sank against a wall and squeezed his stomach. "They're not supposed to be able to find us. Not with all the mojo protecting this place."

"Oh, don't get all gloomy on us, Chuck." Yasmine scowled at him.

"Are the walls holding?" Dean asked Nate.

Nate shrugged. "Yeah, but they're swaying like crazy. And a few boards were tearing loose as I passed em."

_Shit, shit, and double fuck_. "All right. The walls aren't going to make it in this weather." Chuck closed his eyes, but the rest remained tense and alert. "That means all those demons are going to find us really soon. We'll launch a defensive from the cabins. Risa, Chuck, get going and round up everyone. Yasmine, go with them."

Risa grabbed guns, Chuck tucked a pad and pen into a pants pocket and Yasmine held the door for them as they crossed the cabin. The three ran out into the rain.

Jahanyar, Vince and Nate moved closer to the table. "Nate, I want you to get back to Patrick and tell him to get back here. Then I want you to spread the word to the other towers. Get Jackie to do the circuit with you. Watch each other's backs."

Nate nodded, took another swig of water, did a few stretches and left. The wind shot rain water into the cabin, spraying Dean, Vince and Jahanyar. Vince latched the door shut to keep it closed, just to bring them a moment's reprieve.

"All right." Dean leaned on the table. "Let's get to work on how we're going to do this."

...

The vessel was too small. He squeezed into it and felt ready to burst. Taking a vessel felt...unnatural. Unreal. He'd gotten a taste of true corporeality, and this was not it, this sliding into human skin and peering out, an observer more than anything.

The building stilled around him, no longer affected by his Grace. He lifted his vessel's hands, and it took conscious thought to do it; the movement would have been fluent to human eyes, but it took a split second too long from Castiel's perspective. Likely, over time, he'd be able to move without consciously willing to do it; in the meantime, he'd have to be careful.

He was naked. Goosebumps formed on his skin, but he didn't feel cold. He was fully aware of every inch of this body, but without that extra sensitivity, he felt numb.

If he'd more time to become accustomed to the perspective of an angel again and more time to distance himself from his human life, this would not be so strange, so awkward. Castiel got to his feet, sending split-second commands to each muscle, aware of how imperfect his control was and aware that Lucifer probably knew it.

_You are such an odd creature_, Lucifer said.

_Tell me why you have reconstructed my vessel. What have you done to my friends?_

_Yes, it would be your vessel now_. Lucifer sounded thoughtful. Castiel tried not to growl from frustration. _Only a week ago, it had been your true form. Tell me: what is it like to become an invader in your own skin?_

An imagined shiver passed up his spine. He waited.

He sensed Lucifer's smile. _No matter. We can talk more later. Right now, you've got a camp to save._

_What have you done?_

_I've found your pets' hideaway. The flare of your Grace made it so easy, too. You have my gratitude for that._

_No._ He'd been a fool in so many ways; why hadn't he thought of that? Of course Lucifer would be able to detect an angel's return. Castiel's carelessness had put not only himself in danger but also the lives of every human he held dearDean, Chuck, Giddy Thompson, Vince, Grace, a hundred others. _Call off your attack._

_Consider this a test, brother. We're the only angels left on Earth. I want to see what you're capable of with a fully intact Grace._

_You_ His hands clenched into fists.

_You're free to go, remember? Go save your humans. Go save Dean. We'll meet again...if you survive._


	7. Chapter Six

The rain stopped. Heavy downpour became nothing at all and brutal winds died to a breeze. Shouts made to be heard over the noise faded into silence. The thirty people crammed into the armory looked around, some surprised, some tense. Without the excuse of the storm to keep everyone indoors, it suddenly seemed not just crowded in there but oppressive and hot, too.

Dean shoved his way past elbows and guns to the closest window, which was to the left of the door. The road outside was covered by a whole lot of fallen debris, but that was it. No demons wandered into view, neither smoke nor possessed humans.

He turned back to face the people crammed into the room. Everyone looked soaked and some people were shivering, but no one looked scared or tired, just determined and angry. That was good.

Vince stood at a window that faced the store house. He met Dean's eyes and raised his thumb high enough to be seen over Thomas gigantic shoulder. The signal meant everyone in the other who'd been ushered into the store house was all right.

Dean nodded his thanks. "Okay, everyone. Let's go."

He led the way out the armory and down the steps onto the road. Behind him, men and women pushed aside chairs or pushed off of walls, grabbed and cocked shotguns or checked .45's and other guns one last time. A puddle splashed under Dean's boots. The store house door opened and twenty-two more people poured out of it, Jahanyar among them.

As his people took their positions, Dean stopped in the middle of the road and assessed the damage. It didn't look good.

Storm clouds lingered overhead, dark and heavy with more water as if none had fallen at all. They blotted out any sunlight and dimmed the colors down in camp, if there was even a camp anymore. The dirt road was a sea of mud, puddles and clusters of branches. On the other side, the roof of one of the tin shacks had collapsed under a toppled pine tree. So much for their bullet molds; at least they'd had the sense to keep the salt in the store house, away from any tall trees. The grass that had been allowed to grow wild around the practice range was flattened. The grass usually hid the remains of the Impala, but not now. Dean caught sight of its rusted body and tore his eyes away. Its frame hadn't caved in the storm, not that it mattered; not anymore.

Dean pushed aside a large branch and dashed across the road. His shoes squished and stuck in mud for a moment before he pulled them free. Two trucks were parked in front of the ruined shack, just beside the entrance to the camp. The entrance and the wall to either side of it had been torn to shreds. The rest of the wall around camp was probably the same. The gates and the wall had been stripped down to their frames and support beams. A few boards hung on by a nail or two, decorating the frames with abstract graffiti, incomplete bits of sigils that were useless now. Other boards lay in haphazard piles in the mud both inside and outside of camp. The wind had probably carried away the rest. Dean had an almost unobstructed view of the forest outside the camp.

He glanced back across the road at the cabin row he'd just left. He couldn't see the other rows, but this first row looked alright, except for the cabin closest to the wall. A few boards from the fence had smashed a hole through its side. The other five cabins were missing some shingles, and the glass in a couple windows had burst, but that was all. He hoped the kids, Giddy Thompson and anyone else who couldn't fight were all right. Chuck, Risa and Yasmine had gathered them together in Jahanyar and Gretta's cabin, which was more or less in the center of the cabin rows.

Dean wished they'd buried more iron in the ground. He wished they'd had enough iron to surround the entire camp. The walls had been the best idea they'd ever had, for all the good it would do them now. He rounded the side of the truck closest to the now useless wall and dropped to a crouch. The truck and the partly collapsed shack would give him some cover from the ground, though not from above. There were better places to go, but his people were quickly filling those spots.

Jahanyar and Gretta, darted off between two of the cabins, headed for their cabin. Four others followed after them, stepping over or around debris. They'd join Chuck and protect the kids the best they could, though hopefully the sigils on the underside of the cabin's roof would hold and they wouldn't have to do much.

About forty-five men and women spread out. Gun barrels appeared in broken or open windows of the cabins. Others would be peering out the windows in the other walls of the cabins, scanning the skies in all directions. A few people, including Yasmine and Barbara, crouched low behind the railings of stair landings. Vince joined Dean behind the truck, and Nate and a couple others crouched behind the second truck. Ten more people joined the people already in the cabins, each carrying boxes of extra ammo and bags of salt. A young man juggling salt and ammo in his arms joined Dean and Vince. Dean was pretty sure the kid's name was Zack.

A megaphone stuck out a window in the storeroom. Grace stood behind it with Risa beside her.

They were missing 30 people, way too many. Only Nate, Jackie and a couple others had returned from watch duty on the wall. Some of the guards who'd been walking around camp hadn't shown up, either.

"Look alive, people!" Dean called, and got answering shouts from the area. He didn't know for sure where the demons would show up, but they'd always had a flare for drama; if they were going to infiltrate camp, it would be right through the now useless entrance. Still, just to be sure, guns pointed in all directions; some toward the lake and the other cabins, some at the gates, and the rest at the sky. They were as ready as they were going to be.

"I wonder why they stopped the storm," Vince said quietly. "We can shout exorcisms now; we couldn't before."

It was a good question.

"Demon clouds!" someone-it sounded like Darren-called.

Dean started to shout, "Where?" when he heard them. A single demon cloud was like a wind storm, but the noise that rumbled across the sky was like a hundred helicopter propellers.

The gray storm clouds high up in the atmosphere provided the backdrop. A swarm of coiling, bodiless black demons cut paths through the air. They came from all directions, streaking the sky and rapidly closing the gap in the middle, the empty space directly above camp.

Guns cocked and shifted. "Hold your positions!" Dean called. This wouldn't be all of it; he just had that feeling.

Grace's voice rose up to clash with the drone of the clouds. The exorcism had no affect; the demons were several thousand feet aboveground, too far away to hear her. She kept on anyway. Her words would affect the demons as soon as they dared fly down. Dean decided right then and there that he liked her.

The gates buckled. The road visible through the gates was empty. Something invisible slammed again into the gates. The frame creaked from the strain. A few more boards fell off and splattered in the mud. Vince tensed, and Dean shifted until he had a better line of sight on the road.

The gates burst open and slammed against the wall to either side before the hinges gave up and the gates' remains collapsed. The gap was wide enough to pass two cars through.

Silence returned, interrupted only by Grace's voice. No birds called; they were probably still in hiding after the storm. Someone scuffed a boot across a floor. Someone else cleared their throat.

Come on, you pieces of shit, Dean thought.

The road outside of camp was made of broken concrete and mud-filled potholes. It disappeared around a bend of trees, where it was swallowed by the forest. A pine tree and some broken-off branches lay in the road. There were too many places to hide out there, too many spots where Camp Chitaqua could be observed by attackers. As if to prove his point, shadows shifted within the trees, lots of them. Men, women and even kids stepped from the tree cover and converged on the road. They wore old clothing, some of it ripped in places, but that was no different from the campers. More and more possessed people filed out of the woods and joined their friends. It looked like sixty people, and more were coming.

They were too far away to shoot at. They wouldn't be close enough until they were almost in camp.

The demons marched forward, crunching over branches and tossing the bigger ones aside. Twenty feet from the destroyed gates, Grace's voice finally reached them. Spasms shook the front row, driving them to their knees. The rest of the foot soldiers paused just outside of the range of Grace's voice and watched. The front row screamed, and smoke shot from their mouths into the sky. The worst was the cry of a girl who could have been eleven. Her eyes bulged in shock as the smoke was forced from her body. She collapsed with the others. Her eyes turned glossy and dead.

The exorcised demons twisted in the air, flailing in pain or trying to force their way back to the camp. The words did their work, though, and sent all ten of them on the same path westward, away from camp and toward a devil's gate somewhere over the horizon.

The demon fog in the sky that had been there already didn't follow their exorcised friends. Instead, they closed the gap in the sky just over camp. With a collective roar, they shot down like birds of prey.

Letting out their own war cries, the possessed people rushed the entrance. They stepped over the dead hosts of their colleagues as if the bodies were no better than the fallen pine branches. They climbed over boards and followed into the camp.

There was no time to wait for Grace's next exorcism. Forty guns fired. Rock salt and blessed bullets rent the fog spiraling down toward camp. More rounds tore into demon chests. Their bodies jerked and spattered blood. Some of them stumbled but kept going, while others vomited demon smoke, their stolen bodies too destroyed to stay in them.

One SOB's shirt was ripped to shreds, but he met Dean's gaze and stepped slowly toward the truck.

Dean ran out of bullets and grabbed the rounds Zack held out. Vince kept on shooting and finally sent the demon to his knees. He hit the truck on the other side and made it bounce.

Dean pushed the fresh rounds into the barrel of the shotgun, took aim at the demons still standing and pulled the trigger.

The road inside the camp, between the cabins and the trucks, was a mess of fallen and upright bodies. Blood mingled and swirled in puddles. A quarter of the possessed demons had been taken down, but the demons who'd been forced by rock salt from their bodies hadn't been exorcised. They shot into the clouds, twisted around and arched back down with their friends, picked up speeds as they descended.

Bullets tore holes into the demon smoke, making the smoke roar in fury and agony. Other bits of demon fog twisted around their injured friends dodged around their injured friends and kept on coming.

Dean helped take out more of the demons with bodies. The gun retorted in his grip as he counted down rock salt-loaded bullet casings.

A human scream reached his ears. A demon riding in a middle-aged woman had grabbed a hold of Darren's arm and squeezed. Darren sagged from the pain. The demon pulled and dragged him through the wooden railing around the armory's porch. Darren hit the ground hard. The demon brought down her heel hard into his skull.

Thomas appeared in the armory's doorway. He unloaded bullet after bullet into the bitch and screamed an exorcism while he was at it. Dean would have loved to help, but not at this distance with so fifty more demons in the space between them.

A roar of wind overrode gunshots. A single coil of demon smoke spiraled toward them. It was only feet away and so loud it soon drowned out all other sounds.

The fog descended so fast the air shrieked. The breeze it kicked up pressed against Dean, Vince and Zack. Dean grabbed their shoulders and pushed them down. The fog closed in and spread between the cabins, across the road and around the trucks. It surrounded Dean at all sides. His arms plunged into it, gripping onto arms he couldn't see.

The fog passed by, leaving Dean, Vince and the kid crouched in the mud behind the truck. The kid was trembling in Dean's grip. Dean squeezed his arm, let go and grabbed the shotgun still in his lap.

The demons were gone. The sky was clear of demon fog, though not of storm clouds. The demons who still had bodies had vanished.

All the fog had done was act as a distraction. It hadn't knocked anything over or done any other damage. Men and women peaked out of the cabins or peered from behind their cover.

Yasmine, Barbara and Darren lay on the ground, unmoving, along with twenty-six demon corpses. Blood was everywhere, on cabin walls, on the ground, even splattered on Dean's cheeks.

"Where did they go? We didn't even take out half of them!" Vince looked as bewildered and suspicious as Dean felt.

"Does anyone else hear that?" Zack asked.

The drone of helicopters was still there, but it was faint now. The demon fog hadn't left; they'd just retreated. Dean scanned the skies but saw nothing.

This couldn't be good. The demons must have been planning something different. He shot to his feet. "Everyone, get the fuck back indoors! Now!"


	8. Chapter Seven Coming Soon and a Request

Author's Note: Hello, awesome readers. The next chapter of "The Second-Best Rank" will be posted soon. Huzzah!

I have a request. I purchased a Wacom Bamboo Pen Tablet a couple months back, and I've been practicing using it and enjoying every minute. My practice has constituted three digital paintings of Castiel, which I've posted at my DeviantArt account (DanielleDucrest). I'd link directly to it, but this web site won't let me.

I want to try my hand at some illustrations. So, I was wondering if any of you reading this would like to see an illustration of a scene (or scenes) from "Grace Abounding" or "The Second-Best Rank." If you have a preferred painting/drawing style, I'd love to hear your recommendations for that, too—I don't know what my limits are yet and I want to challenge myself.

Leave your request in a review or send me a message. Thanks, everyone!


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